


Tread the water fathoms deep

by Spylace



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Families of Choice, Gen, Pack of choice, Selkies, Stiles is a little lost seal so he needs a lot of hugs okay?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 08:47:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1130609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spylace/pseuds/Spylace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sheriff Stilinski and his wife couldn't have children. In her desperation, Mrs. Stilinski found a young Selkie boy and hid his sealskin. Only she knew where it was hidden; when she died, so did that knowledge. Stiles grew to love his human family as his own, even grieving the death of his captor/mom, but the sea still calls to him in Beacon Hills.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tread the water fathoms deep

**Author's Note:**

> Repost!
> 
> Written for a [prompt](http://teenwolfkink.livejournal.com/2069.html?thread=824341#t824341) on [](http://teenwolfkink.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://teenwolfkink.livejournal.com/)**teenwolfkink**. It's one of those fics that don't come out the way you expected and you obsess over it until you finally throw up your arms in disgust and post it.

  
Beacon Hills is a small town in Northern California, too far from shore for bottle blondes and surfers with fake tans, high enough in altitude for the trees to turn color and snow to stick. It has a small zoo that is a major attraction for every preschool, kindergarten and elementary school field trip ever planned. Stiles himself has completed his allotted number during the school year with minimal incidents.  
   
When his mother died, the zoo became his sanctuary, the only place that didn’t remind him of her. His mother hated the zoo though he sometimes cried and begged when he was young, shocked into pale silence at her sudden outbursts as she demanded if it wasn’t enough—if she wasn’t enough.  
   
He hadn’t understood then, simply that his mother was angry and he didn’t want her to be. Once during fourth grade, she wrote him a sick note and drove him down to a racecourse where he nearly blew out his eardrums, screaming at the race cars as they zoomed by. His father hadn’t been too pleased that night having a hyperactive ten-year-old running underfoot, his chin smeared with chocolate.  
   
But the thing was, Stiles likes the zoo. Before getting his driver’s license, he would bike for miles just so he could visit. His favorite part was the ocean exhibit where Beacon Hill’s then newly acquired blacktip reef shark—completely harmless according to the guide—was the star attraction when the real star was only a few exhibits away in a small horseshoe-shaped tank connected to an open viewing area.  
   
His name was Skipper by popular vote though in private, Stiles always called him King. And the sea lion did look like a king perched on his concrete throne, his head held up high as though observing his harem of seal-maidens.  
   
They are kindred, he and King, though Stiles would never know how different they looked and how much alike. Sometimes when they were alone, he asks him if he missed home, if he remembers his family or leave anyone behind. But King is a sea lion incapable of regret. He simply understands what is and cannot be changed. King will probably die alone without ever seeing another of his kind. Stiles is outside the cage but just as much a captive. Like King, he can never return to the sea. Without his pelt, he is just another teenager playing hooky, a boy that his father wanted and the child his mother stole away.  
   
His pelt is gone now, the secret his mother took to her grave. He thinks that he would have given it up anyway a thousand times over just to see her alive and well again. King presses a flipper against the tank glass with his usual solemnity, trapped in a space barely large enough to stand up in. Slowly, Stiles spreads his fingers in an abbreviated goodbye— _be well_.  
   
It begins with the whispers in the water, in the rain and when he flushes his pills down the toilet. Inside his head, he can hear the moon’s lullaby, gulls where there are none and whale songs in the rush of traffic on the way to school. Sometimes during practice, he stops because he can hear the tide rasping against the golden sand and the there-and-gone voices of his family calling him home.  
   
The problems with Scott are almost a welcome relief.  
   
But he doesn’t like the way Derek eyes him when their paths cross, so unlike the adoring gaze of neighborhood strays and the pack of mismatched dog-wolves at the zoo. Sometimes he feels like he’s nothing more than a big, fat juicy piece of venison the werewolf wants to sink his teeth into. Other times, the rough shoves and harsh retorts seem like an invitation to play, like clumsy seal pups testing their strengths—and that scares him the most of all.  
   
He nearly faints when he sees Derek’s uncle standing and hale. For the first time, he feels the seal inside of him shift and twist like a hiccup caught in his throat or an upset stomach. An animal’s instinct visceral and real, an animal’s brain telling him to run and never look back, to slip into the water and disappear, away from the bloody mouths thick with needles.  
   
The second time their paths cross, Peter grabs him by the wrist and holds him there, sniffing curiously as though inspecting a new pup, a beta or a stray. Selkies may not be as popular as werewolves on the internet but that doesn’t mean there is any less data and Stiles is clever enough to read between the lines, the smug curl of the alpha’s lips and the way his nails dig into the meat of his palm, to know what he must smell like to werewolves without a pack. By the time the alpha is dead at Derek’s claws, something fractures and spills out like hot tears and leaves a bruise deep inside his guts.  
   
Stiles sits in his jeep, the engine running idle, watching the last of the sunlight fade away. The sunset it beautiful, the rolling fog clearing just long enough to let him know that the world hasn’t forgotten. He still hears the echo of waves crashing in his ears and he twists the car keys, hops out of his jeep and walks to the small lake at the edge of Hale property deep in the yellow woods.  
   
His father is late at work, a preemptive strike against the paperwork that’s piled up concerning recent events. Before he leaves, he tells him to stay out of trouble and to call if anything happens. Stiles looks him in the eyes and lies that he will be fine.  
   
He isn’t.  
   
If there is a second thought, it is that he doesn’t want to get his shoes wet. He peels off the ratty sneakers and throws them beneath a tree. He’ll find them later when he comes back out.  
   
It’s cold.  
   
The water is cold and he wonders how that can be when the sun was shining just moments before, filtering down to the clear bottom where there is a layer of silt instead of sand. Stiles swallows a lungful of air, not nearly enough, and kicks, disturbing the stock trout in the lake and the few goldfish that live here. He spies a frog that has wandered too far from shore and snags it with one hand, using reflexes that should not have been possible for him on land. The frog struggles and croaks, bulbous eyes blinking as its body swells with indignation.  
   
Stiles laughs and is surprised to hear the odd purr that comes out of his throat, as though his body is fighting to change back into his natural seal-shape even with the missing pelt. But nothing happens after, he doesn’t spontaneously sprout whiskers nor do his legs fuse into a mermaid’s tail. Satisfied that Stiles isn’t about to eat him, the frogs jumps out of his hand and disappears into the water.  
   
Derek’s waiting for him when he swims back ashore, arms crossed and a permanent scowl lining his face. Reluctantly, Stiles pushes past the dying lily pads, his clothes dragging behind him like a crowd of jellyfish. He remembers that jellyfish didn’t taste good, bland and spongy like biting into lumps of fat, not nearly worth the effort of avoiding the stingers.  
   
Impatient, Derek splashes into the water and drags him out, not caring if his shirt got wet or his jeans ruined as he pushes at him roughly, snarling heartfelt curses even as his fingers remain surprisingly tender, hands stripping him of his soaked jacket and underwear. His shoes are abandoned as Derek holds him in a fireman’s carry to the jeep. Stiles trembles, his entire frame wracked by the cold as he is stuffed into the backseat, the heater turned on as high as it can go which is not much at all.  
   
“How long?” He croaks miserably, teeth chattering as he clutches a blanket tight around himself. Derek takes a moment to answer, glaring through the mirror as though trying to drill the stupid off his brain. He makes a sharp turn, then another, his lips flat-lining into a displeased frown.  
   
“A while.”  
   
“Why didn’t you...?” Stiles struggles to take clear, even breaths. Naked isn’t something to have a panic attack in, especially with a werewolf sitting up front.  
   
“You were _alone_. And I couldn’t offer you a place in the pack.”  
   
“And now?”  
   
Derek barely bats an eye.  
   
“Your kind dies without a pack, a colony, a mate. You were young when she took you,” he guesses, shaking his head as he pulls into the driveway. “She could have killed you.”  
   
Stiles’ voice becomes high and panicky, “She was my mom.”  
   
“You never had a choice.” Derek corrects, “They didn’t leave you if that’s what you were thinking. If you’re alone, it’s because they’re gone.”  
   
Strangely, this blunt confirmation soothes him a little.  
   
“Wow, you really suck at this comforting thing.”  
   
“Shut up Stiles.”  
   
Inside the house, Stiles sits on the couch ensconced in layers of clothing and a thick blanket. He doesn’t have hypothermia but does show early symptoms of a fever. Derek strategically pours hot tea and orange juice down his throat and sits down on the opposite side of him broody as always, contemplating his entire existence at the bottom of his mug. Sleepy and his throat just starting to dry out Stiles asks, “Why?” and he hastily adds, “Why are you being so nice?”  
   
Derek answers lightly, “Once upon a time, you called yourselves the sea wolves.”  
   
Stiles doesn’t know what to say to that.  
   
He wakes up much later when Derek shakes him awake, forcing another glass of orange juice in him before changing his temperature. “Florence Nightingale you are not.” He slurs crankily, batting away another attempt at his forehead. Derek snorts amused and leans back. Stiles whines, “Why are you still here anyway?”  
   
“I have an injured packmate.”  
   
“Thought I wasn’t pack, not wolf.”  
   
“The spot is open, if you want.”  
   
“Right, I’m supposed seduce red riding hood while you eat her.”  
   
“I think she’s supposed to seduce you.”  
   
“How is stealing clothes seduction?”  
   
Derek raises an eyebrow, not even bothering to dignify that with an answer as he walks around collecting cups and mugs in his travels before placing them all beside the lampshade for convenience. Stiles shifted in his cocoon, a bit of his heel sticking out uncomfortably before he tucked it against his knee. He let out an alarmed squeak which had the werewolf literally teleporting on top of him and pinning him against the cushions, unraveling the blankets and letting out the wonderful heat. When Derek takes his frigid hands off of him Stiles begs, “Look, I’m not going to drown myself anytime soon—I wasn’t even trying. I’ll even stay away from the school swimming pool.” Chlorine always makes him dizzy, making him topple into pools like he’s doing it on purpose. “Scout’s honor.”  
   
“You were never a boy scout.”  
   
“You sir, do not know that.” Stiles insists, struggling to sit up. He feels hot, color high in his cheeks as Derek’s face creases into a more severe frown. “Ever seen Harry Potter? The one with Edward Cullen in it.”  
   
Derek momentarily flounders at the non sequitur. “You mean the Goblet of Fire.” He answers as Stiles grins in glee. “I’ve seen it.”  
   
“They’re like that except worse because they’re real and Dumbledore isn’t around to ask them to tea. You see baby seals getting eaten on TV and can’t help but think how clean it is on camera.”  
   
“Stiles, you’re not making any sense.”  
   
“Mermaids,” he says finally, recognizing their songs over the dim buzz of electricity. “I hate mermaids”. There used to be a small figurine of a mermaid on the mantelpiece until he noticed it as a kid and suffered nightmares for months before his mother recognized the problem and got rid of it. Even after, he would be leery of going near the fireplace, always jumping off the cushions—he really hadn’t needed the encouragement—and crawling beneath the coffee table. Eventually, his mother moved a snow globe filled with dolphins and glitter to cover up the space. He tries to focus on the cheery faces and gives up the cause.  
   
Derek sighs, “I’ll take care of it.”  
   
“What?” he asks muzzily, already dropping off.  
   
Annoyed, Derek clarified. “The mermaids. If one comes here, I’ll take care of it.”  
   
“Thanks Derek.”  
   
He means it.  
   
Derek sits down.  
   
“Go to sleep Stiles.”  
   
He closes his eyes.  



End file.
